


Bonfire Night

by AGlassRoseNeverFades



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, And Again with a Twist, Autistic Will Graham, Blood and Gore, College AU with a Twist, Hints of Future Murder Family, M/M, Matthew Might Even be a LIttle Older, Matthew and Will are Close to the Same Age, Murder, Role Reversal, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-03-12 19:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGlassRoseNeverFades/pseuds/AGlassRoseNeverFades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was still little, he would always give his teachers the same answer on Career Day, "When I grow up, I'm gonna catch killers." And now, at age nineteen, nothing has changed. Will Graham is a smart, studious, and driven freshman at George Washington University, determined to make a name for himself in the field of forensics and criminal investigation someday. A young man who knows exactly what he wants and how to achieve it.</p>
<p>Until the night he sees something he was never meant to witness, and all his certainties start crumbling down around him--filling him with doubts about what he's looking for after all, and how far he's willing to go to get it.</p>
<p>Goddammit, being a teenager is <em>hard.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Storytime!
> 
> Once upon a time, there was a fanfic writer who knew he needed to get off his lazy bum and get to work on one of his many currently ongoing fics in order to keep his readers happy. "Today is the day!" he declared to himself heartily. "I can feel the inspiration in my bones!"
> 
> _"Psst,"_ his brain whispered to him, "how about you start this totally _brand new_ brownham college AU instead?"
> 
> "Ha, ha, brain, very funny!" quoth the writer. "But you know I've already got a jillion and one things to update--there's the post-Hannibal's-capture-brownham-AU, the omegaverse-hannigram-AU, the hannigram-brownham-love-triangle-where-somebody's-gonna-die-AU..."
> 
> _"College AU,"_ his brain whispered again temptingly. "Just look at my wares...you see all these plot bunnies hopping around? All these plot _twists?_ Your heart is ready for this, just give in!"
> 
> "No, brain, I refuse! You know it takes me forever to update those other three. If I start another one now, I'll be old and grey by the time I'm done writing Hannibal AUs for good!"
> 
> "It's too late, you fool. You seem to forget I control your entire body, including your hands. Look down, you're already typing it, dude!"
> 
> The author looked and saw that it was true, and _oh,_ how he wept with despair!
> 
> So, um, yeah...Happy Valentines Day, y'all! ;D

It starts out like any other evening for him.

He hadn’t meant to stay at the library so late, but as usual it doesn’t seem to matter what Will originally intended. He had just needed to hunt down a few more sources for his short essay over the old Hobbs case, but as so often happens, it leads him down a rabbit hole as several other fascinating threads of research and similar case studies present themselves to him, until somehow a few more sources snowballs into a few more _hours_ of poring over textbooks and pulling up old news articles uploaded onto the school’s archive database.

His dormmate often likes to complain that Will is “so geeky it’s almost painful to watch,” but Will knows it’s all meant in good humor. Despite the jokes and his much more active social life, Ryan isn’t nearly as laidback in his own studies as he seems in comparison to Will. Few students who get accepted into a school as prestigious as George Washington University turn out to be slackers, after all.

Will can’t help but wonder how quickly the jests would grind to a halt if his roommate knew exactly what kinds of things hold Will’s attention so avidly.

Pulling his focus back onto the case study he’s supposed to be working on, Will’s eyes flicker once again to the autopsy photos of Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ second-to-last victim, Elise Nichols.

Even in death, with puncture wounds lanced through her stomach and a thin white sheet that does little to cover her modesty, her wind-chafed skin and Mall of America looks remind him a bit of early pictures of his mom. Perhaps it is strange to think that about a girl who was roughly his own age when she died. Had she lived, however, she would be older than his father. Not that she would have lived most likely—the cancer in her liver would have taken care of that as surely as her killer did, or so the coroner’s report says.

A soft chime pings over the intercom, gently letting everyone know that the library is about to be closing. Will checks his watch with a puzzled brow and notes that it’s a little earlier than normal, even for a Friday, and guesses it has something to do with tonight’s festivities. He languidly stretches his limbs out in his chair before standing, then sweeps up his messenger bag and a couple of books he wants to check out for further perusal and heads to the front counter downstairs.

His phone vibrates in his pocket while he’s waiting in line. He has to adjust the strap on his bag and juggle his books from one hand to the other before he can finagle it out of his pocket.

“Hey Daddy,” he answers, tone hushed even though everyone else standing in line is also trying to get out and there’s no one left amongst the worktables and bookshelves to disturb. A couple of people glance over at him anyway, their looks not ones of irritation so much as scornful amusement at hearing a grown man still call his father ‘Daddy.’ Will ignores them.

 _“Hey kiddo,”_ says Nick Graham on the other end of the line, warm and affable. _“How’s D.C.? You met the President yet?”_ He asks every time, but it still manages to make Will’s lips quirk up into a half-smile and an amused roll of his eyes.

“Not yet,” he plays along.

_“Well, that man just don’t know what good company he’s missing out on, now does he?”_

“Maybe you should write him a letter, let him know that I’m here.”

_“I just might. Sure, go on and laugh all you want. See if I don’t.”_

“I believe you,” he says, feeling his suspicions confirmed when his father continues to crack jokes without any clear agenda in mind—that he had called for no other reason than to hear Will’s voice.

The realization makes him feel wistful and a bit guilty, though he has no reason to be. He knows separation anxiety probably affects his dad worse sometimes than it does most other parents; it comes with the role of playing both mother and father for years to an only child, particularly one as introverted—and, well, _different—_ as Will is.

It was this or the police academy in New Orleans, however, and while the latter would have kept Will closer to home, his father had deemed it “not good enough for his boy with the big ol’ brain” and came home the day after Will submitted his application to GWU with a whole stack of scholarship brochures and grant forms for them to fill out. The possibility that his son might not be accepted didn’t even seem to cross the elder Graham’s mind, the only question to him being how they would pay for it.

Will thinks his father may have also wanted to delay his son going out into the field as long as possible, perhaps secretly harboring the hope that encouraging a more academic approach to criminal investigation would be enough to satisfy the teen’s interest and dissuade him from wanting to pursue a hands-on career in the future. He’s hinted more than a few times that Will would probably make a good teacher and could even write the books that get used in future classrooms. Will has to remind himself not to read into it as an implication of what his father thinks he’s capable of in the field; he knows it’s just one more way the man’s mile-wide overprotective streak likes to manifest itself.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs had been very protective of his daughter as well. _Jesus Christ, Graham, that’s a morbid fucking thought to have. Don’t go comparing your dad to that maniac._

_“You still there, kiddo?”_

“Yeah, sorry, Dad. I was just…thinking.”

 _“You? Thinking? Well, that’s new,”_ his dad quips. Will snorts in response.

He tries not to groan out loud as the girl in front of him holds up the line even longer, arguing heatedly with the librarian about late fees charged onto her account.

 _“You’re still at the library this late, son?”_ his dad asks, hearing snippets of the conversation in front of him. The elder Graham skips over the last ‘r’ in the word, making it sound like a quick mashup of the words ‘lye’ and ‘brie.’ Will’s glad only he can hear it over the phone, then immediately ashamed of himself for feeling that way. He’s been slowly trying to smooth out his own accent starting this semester, tired of the way some of his classmates look at him when he gets called upon by the instructors, like he’s just some dumb hick no matter what he says or how correct the answer that he gives. _“It’s gotta be dark by now. Tell me you’ve at least got someone to walk back to your dorm with you, pumpkin.”_

 _“Dad,”_ he groans, mortified and now _really_ grateful no one else can hear the other side of this conversation.

_“I know, I know. Sorry, old habits. I forget you’re a little old for me to be calling you that now.”_

“About a decade too old,” Will mutters. The girl in front of him finally leaves and Will steps forward, sliding his books and his ID card to the librarian wordlessly.

_“Just please tell me you’re being careful.”_

Will thanks the librarian and carries his books outside, laying them out on a picnic table in front of the building so he can more easily stuff them into his messenger bag one-handed, a single volume at a time. “You worry too much, Dad.”

 _“You’re in a city with one of the worst crime rates in the country, Will.”_ Will wishes he’d never shared that particular statistic with his dad. _He_ had found it ironically amusing when he first read about it. _“And you know what they say about the kind of the things that can happen to someone walking alone on a college campus at night. Muggings and...stuff like that.”_

“Hey, could be a good test of my skills. What kind of horrible investigator would I be if it turns out I can’t fend off a simple mugger?” He knows as soon as the words leave his mouth that it’s entirely the wrong thing to say, but it’s too late to take them back.

The sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line is enough to make him almost dizzy with guilt for causing it. He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes the earth would just swallow him up right now.

 _“You know very well it doesn’t always matter how well-trained or skilled you are,”_ his dad says quietly. He wishes his dad would yell, get angry, instead of sounding so...so fucking _sad._

“I-I know. I’m sorry, Daddy. You know I didn’t mean...I, um, I wasn’t trying to imply...anything. I was just trying to make a joke. It was in poor taste. I’m really sorry.”

Nick Graham lets out a long sigh, and the tension drains from Will’s shoulders as surely as it is from his father’s several states away, knowing that he is already forgiven. _“Just please be safe,”_ he says once more.

“I will. Nothing’s gonna happen to me. I promise.”

 _“It better not,”_ his dad says. Will can hear the tired smile in his voice. _“Who else am I gonna drag out to the river this summer so I can whup him at catching the most trout?”_

Will allows his own smile to return, relieved that his dad is back to making his lame jokes. “It’s not a competition, Dad.”

_“You’re right, it sure ain’t. I always kick your ass.”_

Will rolls his eyes, smile broadening. “Yeah well, we’ll see how well that goes for you this summer, old man.”

His father laughs uproariously at that. _“You’re on, sport. I’ll catch you later. I love you, pumpkin.”_

Will’s sigh is that of the long-suffering and much put-upon teenager. “Love you too, Daddy.”

Will hangs up, and tries not to guess how many lures will have to be made and given his name before his father truly feels better.

He refuses to think at all about the ones that will be given her name.

*

Now that he’s no longer on the phone with his dad, he’s aware of how dark and quiet everything surrounding him is. He encounters few other pedestrians for most of the long walk back to his dorm. It doesn’t normally bother him, but tonight, with his father’s words still ringing in his ears, it’s eerie. He almost considers calling a UPD escort to meet him and walk with him the rest of the way, not because he’s afraid, but because it’s the best way to ensure he keeps his promise to stay safe.

Will shakes his head at the thought. He _is_ safe. He makes this walk almost every night and it’s _fine._

The quickest way back to his dorm takes him close to the Yard anyway. Most of the student body will be there tonight, though come to think of it, that’s probably a good reason to give the area a wider berth so he can avoid the crowd altogether. He doesn’t do well with crowds, or parties of any kind really. There’s too much to take in all at once, and it can be...overwhelming at times.

Tonight is Bonfire Night. Every year in February, the students of George Washington University celebrate the birthday of its namesake with a night of festivities culminating in a huge bonfire to kick off the evening. It also happens to fall in the middle of basketball season, which means lots of drinking, yelling, and cheering the team on before the next big game.

Will has no intention of wading through a sea of loud, drunk assholes just to get back to his room. He veers off course a bit to avoid as many of the stragglers as possible, going so far that the mass of lights and bodies to his left are little more than a fuzzy moving blur in his periphery as he makes his way through the dark empty parking lot.

The almost empty parking lot. There’s a tall, lanky-looking guy sitting in the driver’s seat of one of the cars ahead of him, its engine still off. Will almost doesn’t see him sitting alone in the dark cab until he is standing only a few yards away. By the faint cast of blue light on the guy’s face, Will guesses he’s probably looking at something on his phone.

Will is about to turn away and keep walking before the guy has a chance to notice his presence and probably yell at him for staring like a creep, when another glint in the backseat catches Will’s attention...and his entire body forgets how to move, how to breathe, his limbs going rigidly still.

The blade cuts cleanly, gliding like silk across the man’s throat just below the Adam’s apple, and Will has only a second to glimpse the man’s eyes going wide with shock, unseeing, before his view is covered in red, the dark arterial spray coating the inside of the windshield in a wide arc and dripping, like paint flicked off the end of an artist’s brush. With no light now but the moon cold and silent up above, the red appears almost black.

_Beautiful._

Will feels something shift inside of himself at the sight, something dark and wild and strangely calm, but has no time to properly assess it before the back door slowly, carefully opens and another man steps out of the car. His dark hair is cropped short and his face is uncovered. He wears no gloves. A simple grey cloth is in his left hand— _for the door handle,_ Will’s mind clinically supplies, _so he doesn’t leave any prints_ —and goes back into the pocket of his jeans after he shuts the door softly behind him. The knife is still in his right.

He is close to Will’s age and about the same height—kind of wiry but well-built, Will can tell because the man only has a black, short-sleeved tee on and Will can see the tautness in his muscular arms. He could probably snap another man’s bones between those arms if he wanted to, with a little effort.

Will wonders if the man is cold in that shirt; Will himself could barely keep from shivering even in his hoodie a few minutes ago, but being from Louisiana he isn’t really used to temperatures below sixty and is probably more affected by the chill than most of the locals. He isn’t shivering now. Neither is the other man, standing and watching Will silently just as Will stands and watches him.

Will is aware that he is being similarly catalogued and evaluated, and feels almost embarrassed knowing he doesn’t cut nearly as impressive of a figure—he does work out some, but it’s mainly just running and cardio exercises. Having those shark-like eyes sweep up and down over his form like this, he feels every bit the awkward, gangly-limbed nineteen year old he actually is. He isn’t much of a threat, and they both know it.

The killer’s eyes return to his face, giving him the first glimpse of _something_ behind the near-expressionless mask of his features. Will isn’t sure what he sees there exactly—it’s unusually difficult for him to get a good read on the guy. The closest word he could use to describe it would be _regret_ most likely—disappointment in what he has to do next. It makes him look rather human.

_Wrong place, wrong time for you. You were not supposed to see this. You are not my design._

The man puts his hand over his mouth and looks aside briefly with just his eyes, the gesture demure and oddly charming, especially the way he glances up once as if looking to the heavens for guidance and lets his hand fall away again almost like a resigned shrug, even as his grip on the knife tightens.

“Did he deserve it?” Will asks suddenly, barely recognizing the voice as his own in the silence stretched between them.

The other man looks over at Will startled, though everything about him is still tightly controlled, not a muscle twitching out of place, nothing to give away that he’s surprised by the question except for his eyes.

Those eyes dart over to the slumped figure in the car again, as if having to consider the question, before returning to Will’s own. “Does it matter?” he asks. The voice is soft-spoken and pleasantly raspy, yet carries easily in the darkness.

“No,” Will answers just as softly. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

Will _sees_ the killer standing before him and has the impression of a presence that gathers no notice, not hiding but merely floating along quietly in the corner of everyone’s periphery like a ghost, taking up no space in any room he glides through until he wants to, and then abruptly and without warning he just _does,_ as if he’s always been there in the center of it all, before just as easily fading into the background again once more _._

Only this is probably the first time he’s ever _not_ been able to fade back immediately, and Will fights down the absurd urge to apologize for it, and another to ask how he learned such a neat trick. He can’t really help it that his usually buzzing imagination has gone quiet and still, his entire world narrowing to this single moment, to this one man filling up all the empty spaces in his head with his strange eyes and the intrigued tilt of his head and the understated elegance of his art. For a fledgling killer—and this _is_ a fledgling killer, Will realizes without knowing how he knows it, even as he notes that this is quite probably not his _first_ kill—his work is simply _stunning._

Will licks his lips and rolls the bottom one into his mouth, biting down on it, entirely unconscious that he’s doing so. He is only aware of how the intensity in the other man’s eyes flares unexpectedly, and then the man takes a couple of steps forward, striding purposefully to close the gap between them.

Will steps backwards just once and the other man stops, blinking owlishly as if he only just now realizes he was moving in the first place, or more likely that by doing so he’s behaving in a way that anyone in Will’s situation would perceive as threatening. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand like he’s embarrassed. Will finds it utterly endearing, and then wonders if he’s completely lost his mind.

Now closer and no longer blanketed by the shadow of the car, Will notices more of his features than he could see before. There’s a scar on his chin, old and faded. There’s also a small dark stain just below the collar of his shirt, shining and black in the moonlight.

“You, um, you have something here,” he says, pointing at the correlating spot on his own shirt.

“Do I?” the other asks, now smiling slightly from one corner of his mouth and staring as if somehow _Will_ were the interesting one in this conversation. Casually he plucks his shirt out far enough to be able to look at the spot Will is indicating. He _tsks_ at it. “Damn. Thought I was being more careful than that.”

Will scoffs, glancing around as though he expects to see other witnesses standing nearby, although there’s no one else but him—just him, and still one witness too many. “Clearly not careful enough,” he says sardonically.

The other man actually giggles at that. “No, I guess not,” he says agreeably, smiling even more crookedly than before. He lifts the knife slowly, plainly telegraphing his movements now for Will to see, and uses the inside hem of his already ruined shirt to meticulously wipe off the blade. Will catches a bare glimpse of ink scrawled in a pattern he does not recognize over pale toned abs, before he forces his gaze back up to the man’s shoulder, fighting down a blush as he remembers the situation and how completely inappropriate it is to be _ogling_ right now.

Satisfied that it’s as clean as it’s going to be for now, the man slides the knife into his back pocket and opens his hands palms up for Will to see that there’s nothing else hiding in them before dropping them back to his sides. Then he starts coming forward again.

This is the moment he should be trying to get away, before it’s too late. The other guy may be stronger, enough that he could almost certainly take Will down even without a weapon in hand, but Will is probably faster. He could run. He could even sling the bookbag off his shoulder and throw it at the guy once he gets close enough, using the momentum to stagger him backwards a little and give Will a better chance at a head start, unimpeded by the heavy weight on his shoulders.

Will tightens his grip on the shoulder strap but otherwise doesn’t move. The opportunity passes by unseized, and Will is left staring into intense, fascinated hazel-green eyes, unable to look away no matter how overwhelming the sustained contact might be, because to do so now would be a sign of weakness that he can’t afford to show.

He stands just inside the edge of what Will considers his own personal space bubble, not quite _too_ close for now, but still close enough to make Will feel slightly off-balance, breath hitched in his throat and muscles poised, ready for anything. He can’t help but think it’s deliberate. From here, he imagines he can smell the blood on the other’s shirt.

“So, what now?” the murderer asks.

Apparently it’s Will’s turn to giggle. “You’re asking _me?”_ he says incredulously.

The killer doesn’t answer, just smiles and stares at Will. Everything about his stance, from his relaxed posture to the casual way his thumbs are hooked into the front pockets of his jeans, gives off an air of nonchalance that Will could almost believe if it weren’t for the man’s eyes. There is nothing “casual” about the way he looks at Will, eyes hooded and dark, drinking in every minute change to Will’s features and flaring almost hungrily again at the sound of his laugh and— _oh._

Will _does_ look away now, overwhelmed and unable to hide the way his breath comes out shakily or the light flush that rises to his cheeks once more as the realization sinks in. It’s worrying that he doesn’t know how to feel about it. A rational voice in his head says this is good—he can _use_ this. It doesn’t specify how exactly.

“I’m Matthew, by the way,” says the other man finally. Will looks up at him sharply.

“Should you be telling me that, Matthew?” he asks, uneasy.

Matthew shrugs lightly. “Why not? I could be lying for all you know, trying to throw you off.”

“No, you’re not,” Will says with certainty, practically before the other is finished speaking.

“No, I’m not,” Matthew agrees, voice almost breathless now, eyes sparking with excitement.

There is a decision to be made here. Will feels it hanging between them, the weight of his own life in his hands, fate to be decided by how he chooses to act _right now,_ in this moment.

Without his own conscious permission, he realizes he’s already stepped in closer, hand extended politely to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m Will.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After four long months, your waiting has finally paid off, hooray! ~~Oh god, I'm so sorry it took me so long to make it back around to this fic finally.~~ Honestly at this point, I would strongly recommend rereading ch 1 as a refresher if you haven't done so already. Picks up right where the last chapter left off.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Will,” says Matthew, almost whispering now his voice has gotten so low, as if he thinks of Will as a skittish animal that might try to bolt if he speaks too loudly. The terrifying intensity of his gaze seems to have only gotten stronger with the handshake. The grip around Will’s hand is warm and firm, and unwavering, and belatedly Will realizes with sick panic and near-giddiness that he won’t be getting his hand back anytime soon.

“Is it really?” he hears himself ask. “I mean, considering the circumstances…” His eyes flicker down to the other man’s mouth, drawn there by those lips curling upward again in another pleased grin. The scar pulls a little with the movement, starting right at the bottom lip and curving all the way down to the point of his chin. Will wonders how he got it, if it ever still hurts or if it just feels like a natural part of his face that’s always been there.

A pink tongue darts out briefly, just wetting his bottom lip and _oh god, he’s staring, isn’t he._ Will forces his gaze away, staring out into the empty parking lot with avid interest. The other man breathes out a quick laugh that makes him about want to die on the spot of embarrassment. _Get a grip, Graham. You just saw him_ kill _a guy!_ And yet, the frisson that travels down his spine at the thought does not feel like fear or revulsion.

“Speaking of circumstances,” Matthew says, tilting his head back in the general direction of the blood-spattered windshield behind him, “we should probably go before anybody else shows up.”

“Right, right,” Will says dazedly. “Um, I’ll just be leaving then?” he adds without too much hope, starting to pull his hand away. The grip around it tightens minutely, not enough pressure to hurt but enough to let him know he’s not getting away that easily.

“You know I can’t just let you go, Will,” Matthew says, perfectly reasonable.

“No, of course not,” Will agrees, matching his even, logical tone. “That would be pretty stupid of you now, wouldn’t it?” Matthew laughs, and Will feels emboldened enough to swing their joined hands side to side for a moment and add, “But we’ll also look pretty stupid if we go walking around like this.”

With a quick roll of his eyes, Matthew deftly switches hands so now it’s his left holding onto Will’s right. He shifts and pulls Will closer to him so they are now standing side by side. “Better?”

Will feels the warmth of the other man’s body beside him, the hand around his own cool and dry, and tries not to think about what it would look like if anyone saw them together like this. “It’d be better if I knew where we were going.”

The crowd in the distance chooses that moment to scream and yell more loudly than before, and Will turns his head to look. The bonfire has been lit.

“That way,” Matthew answers, tugging gently on Will’s hand to pull him along as he starts walking.

“What, the bonfire?” Will nearly protests that he came this way to avoid the crowd in the first place, but his brain swiftly kicks in before he can speak, _For god’s sake, idiot, keep your mouth shut. This is a good thing. He can’t hurt you if there are people around._

“Yeah, I go every year. Don’t you?” the other asks casually, as if there is nothing strange at all about going to a party immediately after slitting a man’s throat just a few blocks away.

“I just started here a semester ago,” Will answers. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Will wishes he could kick himself. _Nice going, genius. You’re on fire tonight._

“So you _are_ a student,” the other says with a hint of satisfaction, confirming Will’s too-late suspicions that he only asked to fish for personal information.

“Like it wasn’t obvious anyway,” Will grumbles, still annoyed with himself. Of all the killers in the world he could have run into, it had to be one of the charming, easy-to-talk-to variety, didn’t it?

“I didn’t want to assume. So what are you studying?”

_“Murderers,”_ Will responds a bit too viciously. The other man halts in his tracks, forcing Will to stop with him, heart leaping into his throat as he wonders if he may have pushed too far.

“Oh yeah?” the man asks, and if it weren’t for the way his dark eyes glitter again with deep fascination, Will could almost buy the casual tone. “Are you gonna write a paper about me, Will?” he asks with a teasing, foxlike grin.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t find you that interesting.” The other man actually giggles at the snappy reply, and Will has the sudden realization that this is the quickest he’s ever been with his comebacks, that he isn’t retreating into himself or tripping over his own tongue with anxiety the way he normally would when forced into a conversation this long with a perfect stranger. Oh god, is this what flirting is supposed to be like? Are they actually _flirting_ right now?

“What are _you_ studying?” he throws back to distract himself from that worrying line of thought. He doesn’t really expect a straight answer though and is therefore unsurprised when Matthew doesn’t give him one.

“I never said _I_ was a student.”

“And you’re not going to tell me either way,” Will infers. “And after I thought we had such a great rapport going too,” he adds dryly.

“We still do. I just think some topics are better saved for the second date,” Matthew answers with a wink.

“Is that what we’re calling this now? A date?” Will asks, chuckling nervously. Yep, definitely flirting. Lord have mercy, if he doesn’t die tonight, his dad is going to kill him.

They are close enough now to feel the blazing heat coming off the towering inferno in waves. The throng of party-goers surrounding them now does nothing to ease the tension in his limbs. If he were to yell out in warning right now about the predator amongst them, would any of them even so much as blink? Would anyone listening care enough to actually believe him?

One girl bumps into his shoulder without even noticing as she passes them, precariously near to sloshing her own drink down her shirt and laughing so loudly at something inane and funny only to her that Will winces, his hand twitching to cover his ear at the sound and only just managing to resist doing so.

“I’m guessing this is your first party,” Matthew states softly right up against his other ear, ostensibly so he can be heard over the boisterous crowd. Will can feel the barest trace of skin along the shell of his ear, and soft puffs of breath stirring the short strands of hair behind it that have just started growing out long enough to curl again. He shivers in spite of the warmth of the flames.

“This is my first lots of things,” he admits a bit breathlessly. The hand around his own squeezes again just a little too tightly, before finally letting go altogether.

Matthew slips around to face him head-on again, eyes bright, and says, “I’m glad I caught you when I did then.” He says it just like that, _caught,_ like a spider delighted by a particularly juicy fly who flew blindly right into the center of his web.

“Pretty sure I’m the one who caught you. Um, _red-handed,_ so to speak.”

“So you are,” Matthew murmurs. Then, as if coming back to himself and their current surroundings again, he deliberately dials it back and lets his gaze flick away briefly to the rows of kegs parked a safe distance away from the flames. “Can I get you a beer?” he asks just like any other casually confident twenty-something-year-old wanting to make a good impression on a first date.

“I’m underage,” Will responds automatically. The sly grin returns to Matthew’s features and he leans forward, crowding into Will’s space again.

“Oh dear,” he whispers right into Will’s ear again, one hand resting on his elbow, “and what kind of respectful, law-abiding citizen would I be to contribute to the corruption of a minor?” Will giggles in spite of himself, giddy with the thrill of danger and one more, surely harmless way of disregarding society’s rules.

Matthew pulls back enough to look into his eyes once more and skim his hand up and down over Will’s arm. “Wait here,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” Then just like that he lets his hand fall away and walks off to join the line for the kegs, leaving Will on his own feeling bereft and unmoored.

It’s not as if he’s gone very far. They are still within each other’s line of sight. Will can feel the other’s hot eyes return to him now and again even if he himself resolutely refuses to look and stare like an abandoned puppy wishing he could follow. It occurs to him that Matthew is showing a lot of confidence— _arrogance—_ and trust in Will not to take the opportunity to flee. He could too—could perhaps easily melt right into the rest of the crowd and wander off before Matthew could make it back to him in time, maybe even find one of the uniformed UPD officers that surely have to be around here _somewhere_ keeping an eye on things to make sure no drunk idiots trip and fall into the fire.

He’s not sure what’s stopping him really. Maybe it’s the way his social anxiety kicks back up several notches and claws up his throat at the thought of deliberately wading through a sea of people on his own. Maybe it’s simple curiosity—what will happen if he sticks around? What does Matthew see in Will that makes him reluctant to get rid of the only witness to his crime, that makes him trust Will with his secret after only a short amount of time and even risk leaving him alone for a few minutes? _What is it that makes this guy tick?_

“You’re still here,” he hears against his ear again, an already-familiar hand holding out a red plastic cup for him to take.

“Where else would I go?” he asks with an awkward twist of his lips, taking a huge swallow of beer before his nerves can overtake him because _fuck,_ this is crazy, why _is_ he still here? It’s practically tasteless, watered down and cheaper even than the canned stuff his dad had let him try sips of once or twice before at dinner. Probably it’s reckless of him to accept anything this man offers him, but he knows Matthew wouldn’t roofie him. (Though if asked, he wouldn’t be able to explain _how_ he knows. As is often the case with Will, he just _does.)_

Matthew shrugs in response to his question, an answering smile tilting the corner of his mouth up as he sips from his own drink. “Do you _want_ to go? You don’t look like you’re having fun out here.”

“I don’t like being around this many people.” He doesn’t want to admit to it, but it’s starting to get to him the longer he’s here. All of these people, these loud, obnoxious _people,_ some of them drinking simply because it’s fun, sure, but others because their friends made them do it, or because it makes the thinking go away for awhile, because it gives them a free pass to say or do what they want but are scared to act on otherwise, because it hurts to be sober, because they’re failing classes and their parents are so disappointed, because they don’t know what they want to do with their lives but everyone keeps telling them they should be ‘living up the college experience,’ because, because, _because, BECAUSE—_

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, _shhh...”_ Matthew has a firm grip on the back of his neck, but the fingers rubbing back and forth over his nape, tickling across his hairline, are soothing and grounding in their simple, repetitious pattern. Their faces are close enough that Will can feel the words breathed across his lips, his vision swallowed up by one being again.

“Ignore everyone else and just look at me, alright?” the older man says, making Will wonder how much he might have been saying out loud, or if Matthew is just that good at guessing what Will needs in order to calm down. He might have laughed at the absurdity of a man he just met who also happens to be a murderer trying to comfort him if it wasn’t _working._

His breath slowly evens out, the persistent buzz of others’ cares and worries fading piece by piece from the back of his mind until he’s left with his own thoughts again and some vague impressions of intrigue and concern from the man standing in front of him. Great, of course Will would give himself away and reveal his biggest weakness within an hour of meeting someone new, and of course it would be to someone who, instead of running for the hills like any normal person would, now finds him _more_ interesting than he already had before. To say nothing of the fact that he is somehow capable of triggering a protective response in someone who likes killing people for fun.

“Better?” the other asks, finally, reluctantly, letting his hand fall back to his side again when Will nods. “I wouldn’t have dragged you to this if I’d known. I’m sorry.” Will hates how sincere he sounds and hates how much he _likes hearing it._ “We’ll leave in just a minute, okay? There’s just one thing I came over here to do and as soon as it’s done, we’ll go.” Will nods again to show that he understands and finds those terms acceptable.

Over the din he hears a high-pitched electric screech followed by a girl’s voice, loud and grainy, starting to chant the school’s fight song, and realizes that one of the drunks must have found a megaphone. Half of the crowd starts to cheer and chant or slur with her, depending on how capable they are of following along. Matthew meets his eyes again and grins.

“See? Couldn’t have picked a better time to do it anyway. Magic words.” Will has no idea what that means, but Matthew leans in closer to be heard over the noise anyway before he can try to form a response. “Forgive me if what I’m about to do makes you embarrassed as hell to be seen with me in public,” he says with mock solemnity. For a moment Will thinks he intends to kill someone else right there in the crowd, but what happens next is even more surreal than that.

Taking a cautious step back from Will but closer to the bonfire, Matthew winks once as if to be reassuring, then just as the chanting seems to be reaching its crescendo, he knocks back the rest of his drink, crushing the cup in his hand and tossing it aside, then with a loud whooping yell whips off his own shirt over his head and tosses it directly into the fire behind him.

Will knows he is gaping, equal parts disbelief and awe, but can do little more than stare as the shirt stained with the blood of a dead man disappears into the flames where it will shrivel and disintegrate into nothing. Even as he watches a few other guys spurred by the action follow suit, the noises from the crowd filling with more wild, cheering whoops and appreciative whistles all around.

He realizes after a moment that he is laughing giddily along with the rest of them, but for entirely different reasons. Matthew comes back to him flushed and grinning. _“Okay, that’s done! Now let’s get out of here,”_ he shouts over the din, grabbing Will by the arm and steering him out of the crowd back into the cold, dark night.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This night isn't over yet! ;)_  
> 
> FYI for my non-American readers, the legal drinking age here is 21. Ah, to be 19 like Will again, smack in the middle of that limbo age where you are legally considered an adult yet not old enough to drink yet. :/


	3. Chapter 3

Will lets himself be dragged along the dark deserted pathways around campus further and further from the crowd gathered around the fire. He still feels buzzed from the adrenaline and the alcohol now running through his system in equal measure. Matthew’s hand around his own is firm and warm.

For the life of him, he can’t explain how it’s come to this. How did he—shy, awkward, nerdy loner Will Graham—get himself caught up with some murderer on the way back to his dorm, practically an accomplice now at this point with the way he’s kept his silence about what he saw? And why does he have to feel so damn _giddy_ about it?

It’s unquestionably insane and stupid, but Will finds it hard to care the more Matthew keeps looking back at him as he pulls him along, grinning in spite of the cold he must be feeling by now with his torso fully exposed. Will would offer up his hoodie to the other man if he thought it would fit over those chiseled muscles, and he feels heat rising to his cheeks again as he catches himself staring once more.

Matthew, for his part, seems dazzled by Will’s very presence as if he can’t believe his own luck. It makes Will feel more confident and at ease, reminding him that he’s not the only one this is a whole new experience for. It’s not every day one plans out a murder and comes out of it unexpectedly with a date. Will blames the alcohol for the fact that the idea doesn’t bother him anymore.

Out of nowhere, Matthew abruptly pulls him into a darkened building Will has never seen the inside of before and confidently leads them to an empty classroom. That’s one more point for Will’s theory that Matthew _is_ associated with the school in some way, whether as a student or an employee of some kind it’s still hard to say.

All of Will’s theorizing and thoughts of trying to get a straight answer from Matthew fly right out of his head as the other man suddenly pushes him forcefully against the nearest wall and crowds up against him. Will does his best not to _meep_ out loud, nervous and blushing again for reasons that have nothing to do with the warmth of the building or fear for his life.

“So is this the part where you do me in for knowing too much?” he can’t help but joke, voice shakier than he would like as he speaks. Matthew smirks and leans in to nuzzle against his ear.

“Not if I don’t have to,” Matthew whispers. Will shivers at the feeling of lips brushing lightly against his skin. His eyes slip shut as they trail further down his cheek and along the side of his jaw.

_“Just relax,”_ Matthew tells him, hands settling on Will’s tensed shoulders and trying to ease them into loosening up, scattering featherlight kisses over Will’s jaw and the corners of his mouth until there are butterflies fluttering in his chest.

He relaxes enough under Matthew’s light touches that the messenger bag slides easily down his arm and falls to the floor with a loud thump. The sound is like the crack of a gunshot going off at the start of a race, as if it were just the signal he needed to galvanize him into action, spurring him to suddenly wrap his arms around Matthew’s neck and seal their lips together in a real, fiery kiss.

One of them moans, he’s not entirely sure which, and Matthew’s hands slide down his torso to grip Will tighter and pull him impossibly closer. It goes on like that for Will doesn’t know how long, the two of them making out heavily and grinding against each other until Will feels Matt’s hands slide up under his shirt and run inquisitive fingers over his quivering belly. Then he has to pull away slightly, though not far enough to escape the older boy’s tight grasp, pressing his hands lightly against Matt’s bare shoulders to keep him from surging back in for more.

“Too fast?” Matthew asks, panting, letting loose another grin Will could get addicted to seeing when the younger man nods. “Okay,” he says simply, relenting much more easily than Will would have expected considering what little he knows about him so far. “That’s fine. We can take it slow.”

Will squirms a bit and looks away with a blush, shy and embarrassed by how ridiculously pleased he is with this turn of events. “You, um, want to walk me back to my dorm?” he asks, forgetting for the moment why it might be a mistake to show a serial killer where he lives. The way Matthew’s eyes flare darkly with delight at the request should probably clue him in to the trouble he’s inviting further into his life, but he shivers for an entirely different reason instead.

“Sure,” Matthew answers and lets Will guide them back outside and lead the way. And if he clings a little close with his arm around the younger man, well, it’s still chilly out, isn’t it?

Will feels a little weird about inviting him inside while his roommate is out, but he does lend the man an oversized sweatshirt that fits almost snugly around Matthew’s biceps as he pulls it on.

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” Matthew assures, “when I come over to pick you up.”

“Pick me up?” Will asks, eyebrow raised. Matthew smirks.

“Gotta take you out on a proper date now, don’t I?”

Will doesn’t bother trying to come up with an excuse to get out of it, already guessing that Matthew is one who won’t be easily dissuaded, and it’s not like he had plans for this weekend anyway. “Will it be anything like tonight?”

Matthew’s eyes darken again, his face eerily still as he considers the obviously loaded question. “Do you want it to be?” he asks softly.

Will’s voice sticks in his throat because he doesn’t know how to answer that, not yet, and it should worry him that he doesn’t know. Instead of analyzing it too deeply, he tugs the other closer again by his collar and kisses him fiercely, then pushes him back out into the hall with an abrupt _‘goodbye’_ before closing the door in his face. Let that be answer enough.

He hears Matthew’s muffled laughter through the door and slumps back against it. _I must be insane,_ he thinks as he listens to the other man’s footsteps until they fade out of hearing. _Maybe it’s catching. Maybe I caught his crazy._ He bites his lip, heart tripping with excitement at the thought of seeing Matthew again and what they might do together soon. _I caught his crazy and I like it._

After setting his bookbag on his desk and texting his dad that he made it back to his dorm safe and sound, Will drops down onto his bed and falls asleep quickly, exhausted by the day’s events, the last coherent thought on his mind being that it’s definitely going to be an interesting weekend.

*

_“Hey,”_ Beverly whispers, prodding Will in the arm until he startles awake enough to lift his head away from his arm. “That’s the second time I’ve had to wake you up in the last ten minutes. Busy weekend, huh?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Something like that,” he answers, straightening up in his seat, more awake now as their Criminology professor briskly enters the classroom and most of his fellow students fall silent.

“Okay, Mr. Cryptic, now I’m really intrigued. You know I’m grilling you for more deets than that as soon as we get out of here,” Bev whispers hurriedly out of the corner of her mouth before class officially begins.

“You can ask, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you everything,” he responds quietly. Bev turns her head back to him, opening her mouth as if to speak again, but their teacher clears her throat to make an announcement before she can say anything.

“Everyone, you should have your topics for your term papers picked out by now. I hope you’ve selected a good one because you are going to live, breathe, _and dream_ about whichever past case you’ve chosen and nothing else until the end of this semester.” Her lips quirk up into a barely perceptible smirk. “And possibly beyond. Get your proposals out on your desk and I’ll come by to collect them now.”

“Professor Hobbs?” one of the girls near the back asks, raising her hand. “What if we’re interested in writing about the boy they found dead in his car this weekend?” A few of their classmates mutter angrily, apparently finding the suggestion distasteful, as if it hasn’t already been the topic of heavy gossip all around campus for the past several days.

“If you think you can stretch one single thrill kill with an unknown culprit or motive out into a detailed fifteen-page analysis by the end of this semester, then by all means,” Professor Hobbs replies sarcastically. “Personally I find your lack of imagination and obvious attempt to cover up the fact that you haven’t prepared anything for today’s assignment rather dull.” The girl lowers her hand and shrinks visibly in her seat.

Will covers up his smile behind his hand, even as he fishes his own proposal out of his bag with the other hand. For just a moment, his and Professor Hobbs’ eyes meet and he has the oddest feeling she can tell, her lips curling up minutely into an almost smile of her own before she turns away from him and starts walking around to collect their papers. Probably he just imagined it.

Hobbs takes a few moments to skim over each paper and comment on it before she moves on to the next student down the row. Will is still just tired enough that it doesn’t occur to him to be concerned until she’s already at his desk, looking over his proposal a little longer than the rest with a single eyebrow raised. He swallows a bit nervously as she turns her gaze back to him, lips _definitely_ quirking up into a smirk this time.

“There’s always one,” she murmurs. “Someone hands this topic in to me at least once every semester. You are by no means as edgy as you think you are if that’s what you were going for, Mr. Graham.”

“I-I…no, ma’am,” he mumbles, eyes latched onto the fashionable blue scarf around her neck, then quickly back down to his desk as he realizes where he’s been staring.

She hums thoughtfully, still thankfully looking somehow more amused than offended. “I look forward to reading it then. We’ll see if your conclusions fare any better than those of your predecessors,” she says, turning then to go over Bev’s topic and give a few pointers on it as well before she moves on.

Beverly waits until Professor Hobbs is out of earshot at the other side of the room and distracted by another conversation before she turns back to Will and hisses, _“You did not. Tell me you did not choose the_ Minnesota Shrike _as your topic!”_

Will shrugs. “I think it was a fascinating case,” he mumbles. One made all the more fascinating with the Shrike’s daughter and only living victim currently circling the classroom and cheerfully making her students sweat bullets like a hawk playing with a den of mice. Not that that has anything to do with it, of course, even if Will does think it’s pretty amazing that she went on afterwards to become one of the best criminal profilers in the country, and read all of her books cover to cover while he was still in high school, and may or may not have chosen GWU as his top pick because she teaches there, and okay, _maybe_ secretly idolizes her just a teeny tiny little bit. Even still, that’s definitely not the reason.

“Am I gonna have to change seats and pretend like I don’t know you now?” Bev asks jokingly. “I’ve got a high B going in this class, I really don’t want anything to mess that up.” Will merely rolls his eyes. At least she’s not asking about what he was up to this weekend anymore.

As if in response to where his thoughts have strayed, Will’s phone buzzes quietly in his pocket. Will waits until Beverly’s eyes are up front again before he sneaks it out under his desk to take a look. It’s a text from Matthew.

_‘Missing you already.’_ Will smiles softly and puts his phone away again without answering, not wanting to risk getting caught with it out and getting reprimanded by his favorite teacher. Things are looking up for Will in ways they never have before. In very little time since he’s arrived in D.C., he’s found himself suddenly with a new boyfriend, a new hobby, a great friend sitting beside him, and an awesome teacher who seems oddly okay with his weirdness.

Will can’t wait to see what’s in store for him next. From where he’s sitting now, the future looks very bright indeed.

 

  _End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it seems like this was more of a teaser than a legitimate conclusion, _aheheheh,_ you're half right! After much consideration, I have decided not to continue this story further, _but_ the reason for that is because I've decided the plans I had in store for it are much better retooled and adapted as an original IP instead of fanfic. So if you're interested in that, you may hear more from me in the coming year as I start reworking this idea as an original, novel-length story with original characters. Thank you all so much for sharing the journey with me, and if reading in the Hannibal fandom only is your thing, no worries! I'm still an active part of this community and will continue working on my other fanfics! ^_^

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~I just wanted to write an AU where Will's daddy is alive for once and dotes upon his weird, creepy, morbid son like he's this precious little bunny who must be protected at all costs, ok hush.~~
> 
> I know Will is a bit OOC in this, but I feel that given his age the minor changes to his personality are warranted--he hasn't had the same amount of time to grow and mature as show!Will obviously. He's a _teenager_ for goodness' sake, so of course he's nowhere near the same place on his character arc yet, ya feelin' me?


End file.
